Whats Left Behind?
by Rexias
Summary: Tracy Martin is a soldier who doesn't know what he wants in life. His world is flipped over when his squad is ambushed. In the aftermath he is brought on to Mythic, a squad that hunts down the worlds most dangerous criminals, the ones that Heroes can't be sent after. Will he find what is looking for, or will he lose himself in his emotions. OC's. Violence, blood, language, etc.


A/N: Well here we are. I have this thought about what about war and soldiers in the MHA world and that led to here. I couldn't honestly change Deku or any of the other characters in the story for this so I decided to use OC's. To some that's a major reason to leave the story here and now and I get that. Shout out to Arrixam for reading this over and giving me a few pointers on how not to suck. If you have never read his work go and check it out. He has a lot of talent, and really plans his work out well.

One thing I wanted to do for this is to add a song that I had on repeat in my head while I write each chapter. For this one its _Every Second_ by From Ashes to New. Let me know what y'all think of this thing. Feedback is always appreciated.

* * *

"For the love of all that is holy, can there be anything more than sand, and sun out here?" Rodriguez asked as they patrolled a mile outside the bases secure perimeter. The Swordsman rolled his eyes as they scanned the desert around and behind them. He was in the rear for a reason, and the small talk would not distract him.

"Shut up Rodriguez. The universe is listening and it loves nothing more than fucking with people." Smith's reply was sarcastic, but edged with the fear they all felt. They were several miles from the base, and help would take time to reach them if they were ambushed. The Swordsman turned to look at Howes, eyebrow raised, asking if he would do something. Howes looked at him and opened his mouth, but Rodriguez replied first.

"Sorry man, just got tired after so many months of nothing but sand. It's not like home you know?"

"Quiet, you two." Captain Shaw called from the front of the column. Turning back and forth, Captain Shaw signalled a halt. The RipSaw class tank on the side of the column stopped and the driver cut the engines.

"Turner," The Captain called. "Feel anything?" Turner, a lithe man in the middle of the column, knelt and activated his Quirk. a unique variation on echo location, Turner could feel vibrations in different media. He said sand was a bit different,but he could feel a snake a quarter mile away, or so he said.

Standing he called out, "Nothing for sure. I can feel something big about 3 miles north, towards city. Almost feels like a tank sir. It's moving fast, not as fast as our RipSaw though." He pointed in the direction he called out, to the right of the patrol direction.

"Radio it in. See if base can give us any info on troops in the area. Wouldn't want to smash a friendly tank. Everyone else, 10 minutes, then back on the march. APC meets us in 2 hours." The men gratefully lounged, taking swigs of water, letting rifles hang loose. No one let their guard completely down. Each was ready for combat at a moments notice.

Howes turned to the Swordsman, an easy smirk growing on his face when he saw his friends vigilant eyes watching the area they had patrolled already.

"You know the world isn't always out to kill you." Howes said, voice light as he watched his friend.

The Swordsman turned and and pulled the covering off his face, taking a drink of water. "The world isn't? Cuz it seems damned determined to try." His voice was light, not the gravel one expected of a soldier on his fifth tour to the Middle East.

"The snake was lounging." Howes rolled his eyes as he said it, remembering the incident from the previous day.

"In the middle of base? Where there are a lot of people regularly walking and vehicles moving?" The Swordsman was having none of his best friends sarcasm today.

Howes frowned and retorted. "The man wanted to thank you for destroying that tank. His village would have been destroyed if you hadn't taken it out."

"He had a knife in each of his sleeves. That hug would have been a bad re-enactment of Julius Caesar and you know it." The Insurgent in question had been well hidden in the village. Only the odd sway of his long, open sleeves had tipped the Swordsman off that something was wrong.

"Mia just wanted you to try her new adult drink." Blue eyes sparkled at this last one, sweat stained brow pulled up in laughter at the memory of his friend choking on the smell of the liquid his daughter had sent them.

"Your daughter sent me hydrogen peroxide. Mixed with Moonshine. I still want to know how that got through the mail and all the security checks." The Swordsman deadpanned, brown-green eyes staring back, narrowed, annoyed at the memory of having to fake drinking a deadly brew in front of a 3 year old on Skype.

Howes threw his head back laughing at the memory. "You deserved it for breaking her heart and taking her daddy back to war, Uncle Trace." Howes teased, his usual voice moving several octaves up to imitate his daughters voice. He sobered up when he noticed his friend staring off at the path behind them. "What did you see?" He asked quietly.

"Not sure. Might be nothing." Trace whispered back. He turned and meandered over to the RipSaw, moving his mask back into place over his mouth and nose. He then set his rifle down near the back of the tank. Noticing the movement, all members of the squad began to visibly relax, and put away their their water. They continued to talk, their movements seemingly normal, but in reality they were on high alert. Trace didn't set his rifle down unless he needed the broad sword strapped to his back. He didn't need his broadsword for his quirk, but he was much more effective with it than his rifle, and they all knew it.

Howes set his rifle near his, and out of sight of the rear path, they slipped over the sand dunes quietly. They circled low and fast, tracing their path back two hundred-fifty feet and fifty feet off the trail to the north. They waited in silence. They could take no risks. The squad had been alerted, but they still had not spread out perfectly, still too close to the tank. A lone figure stood up from the dunes, thirty feet in front of them. He rose slowly, sand colored robes blending into the sand. A sand devil rising from the desert, and as he rose, twenty more appeared next to him, a small legion of sand ghosts.

Trace turned to Howes, and mouthed _Russians? _ Howes considered and shook his head. These were Insurgents, from the region. They fought everyone and anyone who showed up. They wanted their homeland to be their own, and their traditions to be their laws. They couldn't care less about the world until the world kicked in the front door. They would defend their way of life to death, and would use every trick in the book from guerilla warfare to outright destruction with quirks. They would either win or die trying.

They stood and moved to start taking out the stragglers, when another, previously unseen Insurgent, stepped directly into the sight of their comrades, and without hesitation fired the RPG on his shoulder at the RipSaw. The squad never stood a chance. The grenade impacted the light tank, and detonated. Half of the ten man squad were dead before they even knew an ambush was occuring. The other half were covered in flames, desperately rolling to put them out. They never stood a chance when the Insurgents opened fire, a hail of bullets putting them out of their misery.

The lead Insurgent raised his rifle in triumph, a cry of victory called out and echoed by his men. That cry would ultimately be their demise. For they had not won yet, two more men from that squad lived, and they would see their comrades' ghosts appeased by blood.

The world went red for Trace as he drew his sword, charging in impossibly fast to kill those who had ambushed them, light shining on the steel. Howes let out a curse as he saw his friend leap into action. He knew the bloodlust had gotten his friend, and nothing but spilt blood would bring him back.

The first Insurgent fell as the sword lashed out, his head neatly separated from his body. Another was dead, stabbed in the heart from behind, before the first one hit the ground. The second manage a cry of pain, alerting the others that the ambush had been flipped. Trace steeled himself and moved on.

Blood flew through the air as the sword completed its next swing, sunlight shining off the blade as crimson liquid dripped from its edge. He wasted no time, reversing his swing and bringing the broad sword around to remove the hand racing toward him from its owner. The attacker fell, screaming in pain as his hand fell in front of him. The swordsman couldn't afford to think more as he was on to his next target.

A dozen fighters in sand colored robes charged him, some wielding swords and knives, others wielding rifles and handguns, some charging in with no weapons but their fists visible. No doubt the barehanded fighters thought to use their quirks to subdue him. He refused to allow them to get close. Closer than his blade of course. Said blade moved again, reaching from the throat of one fighter to intercept the sword of the next, caught for a moment in a test of strength. He shifted the blade so that the noon sun would reflect into his attackers eyes. Blinded, the man let up his pressure, and was rewarded when Trace's blade disengaged and rammed into his heart. He died without a chance to recover from the sun.

Trace wasted no time and moved forward, blade dancing in the sunlight as he fought, his tan uniform hard to distinguish from the dunes surrounding him, combat boots creating a miniature dust storm around him as his feet shuffled. Enemy after enemy fell to his blade, their robes stained with blood as they fell. To his right, an enemy raised his rifle, not caring if he killed his comrades as long as the sword demon was put down. He put his finger to the trigger of the rifle, only to stop and fall to the side as blood exploded from the side of his head.

The Swordsman nodded to his companion off to the side. Howes was his partner, they had been together since basic, and had formed a friendship to last a lifetime. They had saved each other's lives more times than they could count, and they could always count on the other to watch their backs. He was Uncle Trace to Howe's daughter, Mia, back in California. He was the reason Howes had signed up for another tour, leaving his wife and daughter home. Howes raised his handgun once more and began to fire at the enemies with rifles, killing or distracting the ones who raised their weapons. The Swordsman leapt back into the fray, determined to keep his only remaining squad mate alive to see his family again.

The battled continued as they fought against the ambush, knowing that death was the kindest fate awaiting them if they failed. The Swordsman wished that their squad had survived the ambush in the beginning, but the RPG had been seen too late, the missile and its resulting blast unable to be dodged.

One of the Insurgents decided to get cute and activate his quirk, creating sand vipers to try and pin Trace and Howes down. Trace rolled away, grabbing his combat knife he kept on his belt. As he stood, he deftly turned and brought his arm down, the knife now magically embedded in the man's forehead, a faint trail of light shimmering in the sand from the collapsed golems it had torn through in its fifteen yard journey. Howes had leapt over the flaming mass of the tank to get away from the vipers, and now joined the fray once again.

Howes knew this was a losing battle. Trace couldn't use his quirk to kill this many at once without catching him in the blast, and his quirk was useless against their current opponents. A human EMP was generally helpful on shutting down missile batteries, but not so much rifles, he mused. He swore if they made it out of this alive, he would go home and stay home with his wife and daughter. Howes was dragged from his thoughts as he was forced to catch arm of a man with long, cat like claws. He brought his handgun up and unloaded four rounds into the man's stomach. He dropped, and Howes was forced to reload his now empty gun.

He dropped the magazine, and brought a fresh one from his holster, sliding into place with a solid click. He released the catch, and noticed that the cat man was groaning on the ground, reaching for a rifle. Howes placed a round into the man's' head and looked n for his friend.

'_Three left'_ Trace thought as he fought on, sword tearing out his enemies' stomach. The enemy to his left dropped as a bullet entered his skull. He reversed his swing and cut the throat of the man he had just disemboweled. He turned and threw himself at the last enemy, sword slicing through the air as it clashed with his opponents' blade. He brought his sword back and it flicked out, feinting for the knees, and twisting, rising for a slash across his chest. His sword was blocked yet again, his opponent displaying the skill to discern his strikes and block them. He leaned back as he disengaged, the tip of a sword slicing into his forehead as the swing followed him.

He grimaced, annoyed at the blood now seeping into his eyes. "You're different than the rest. Guess I'll have to be a little more serious with you" he drawled out, voice low and dangerous.

"I am stronger than they, and they will rest easy once you are bleeding out on the sands, American." the attacker hissed, accent thick as he spoke. "I will crush you!" He snarled, viper fangs emerging from his mouth.

The Swordsman narrowed his eyes, and shot off like a rocket at his opponent, sand glittering as light touched the particles, his sword shining in the sun as it whipped through the air, his movements a blur. The Insurgent was caught off guard at the new speed and ferocity displayed. He managed to block the first strike, then the second and third, but the fourth caught his off arm. The blade burned as it sliced into and through his flesh. He renewed his efforts to stop the Americans blade, but he couldn't defend every strike, and soon they were too fast to follow. A cut caught his cheek, another across his thigh, one more on his stomach.

"How?! How are you this fast?!" He cried out in desperation. He swung with more of his strength behind his counter and pushed the bright blade away. He then spun and put all his weight behind the strike, intending to take his enemies head off, sword or no. He was rewarded with a light resistance from his opponents' blade, and then his strike continued on, without the top half of his sword. He stared blankly at the melted half of his sword, and then stared at the shining blade that had entered his heart.

He understood now as he looked into the cold gold and brown eyes of the American. His quirk had been used, and he had not noticed it, mistaking the light on the sword for sunlight. The American soldier had been using his quirk during the whole fight. He began to look up, praying for a miracle, and was rewarded before his eyes reached the heavens. He grinned, for he had seen the Americans' end behind him. He died; eyes locked on the tank barrell beginning to rotate towards the Americans.

"Trace!" Howes yelled, throwing himself at the tank and activating his quirk. His quirk was unique and had a very niche purpose. It was a localized electromagnetic pulse. He could emit a powerful shortwave burst that would fry any electronics near him. It was too small to be of any use to the U.S. Military on a large scale, but it had served him well on infiltration missions, and now it stopped the tank from turning its large caliber gun towards his comrade. He grinned and turned back to the Swordsman's, who had just removed his blade from the final ambushing enemy, and signaled that he would move so Trace could clear it.

He had taken no more than two steps when a shot rang out, his body falling forward as blood erupted from his head, the bullet easily pushing through his skull and brain. Howes was dead before he hit the sand.

Tracy Martin watched as his best friend died, shot in the back of the head by the Russian who had opened the hatch of the tank. He saw his last squad mate collapse in a pool of gore, and everything he had been holding back snapped to the forefront. Surrounded by death and destruction, he gave in to the rage. His blood lust from before was nothing compared to the hatred eating through him now.

His eyes flicked up, and he brought his sword over his head, both hands gripping the handle, light shining from it like a second sun. This however was not a light of salvation, a light that promised mercy and strength for those in need. This was one of damnation, of pain and vengeance, a promise of death to the enemy. This was the quirk of Tracy Martin, and it howled for blood.

The Russian soldier yelled, and fired rounds at Tracy wildly, but only one hit. It landed in his shoulder, and Tracy grunted in pain. Physical pain was nothing now, not compared to the pain in his heart. It would not stop him. Light unleashed itself as the sword fell, and the resulting explosion of light and sand was seen for miles.

* * *

They found him there, twenty minutes later. Sword on the ground, kneeling and weeping as he cradled Howes. Surrounded by the bodies of Insurgents and the charred bodies of squad mates. His friends blood covered him, and he cried for he knew he hadn't protected him. He cried as they shook them, swatting their hands away, and finally carrying Howes body to the transport, determined to bring his friend home.

He would do this, he would not fail here when he had failed on so many other promises. He had fucked up once again, and now he would have to look his best friends wife and daughter in the eye and explain that Thomas Howes would be coming home, just not in the way they had hoped.

The quiet sobs had stopped an hour ago. The heart-rate monitors steady beep, and the deep breathing of Tracy Martin were the only sounds in the room. General Miles Thompson sat watching the young soldier sleeping. His hands were folded, forehead propped on them, elbows on his knees. The door to the room opened quietly, and another man sat down next to the General.

"He come to yet?" The newcomer asked, his voice low.

"Not yet, and not likely to be soon. He carried Howes body all the way into base. Took a huge amount of sedatives just to put him down enough for surgery. I had the doctors put him damn near into a medical coma."

"That bad huh? He lost his whole squad, but damn, that light looked like we set off a bomb."

"Martin has quite possibly one of the strongest abilities in the Army. Photon Matter Manipulation." The General's statement held pride, but there was a sadness as well.

"Photon Matter Manipulation? You mean he can control light?" Confusion resounded through the others voice as he worked out the effects of the quirk from its name.

"It's more than that, but only he can explain it well."

There was a long pause as the newcomer digested this information and then he asked "Why do sound like he is one step from becoming a terrorist?"

There was a pregnant silence as General Thompson considered the man next to him, and the soldier who had destroyed a tank not ten hours ago. He sighed and ran his hands through his gray hair, before he looked up and met the questioning gaze.

"Tracy Martin has had one hell of a life. He went through hell before he even joined up. Things were starting to turn around for him here, and he just lost his best friend. He spent off duty time with Howes and his family, rather than his own. He just lost one of the solid rocks of his rebuilt life, and its only going to go downhill from here. Paranoia, fear, anxiety, a soul-deep confidence that the universe itself is out to destroy everything you care about and then kill you. To top it all off he has one of the most ridiculously powerful quirks ever recorded. He is in a position where I have to re-assign him, or strip him and discharge him. Either way I suspect that I will be forced to give him a very public ass chewing because of the force he unleashed against the Insurgents and the Russians. Oberon, this kid is in hell and he is only going to be sent further in."

Oberon leaned back and considered this. The skill he had seen displayed in training mission videos and the discipline he had seen in the field report videos showed the picture of a soldier with more to him than just killing enemies or following orders. He nodded to himself, decision made final after talking to the General.

"I'll take him." Oberon's words had the desired effect as Thompson snapped his head up, eyes glued to the smirking face. "He will fit right in on Mythic."

"You're serious?" The General finally managed to regain composure and question the predatory grin the soldier next to him had. Mythic was a top of the line, top-secret group. Only a sporadic and dispersed group knew of its existence. The President of the United States was even unaware.

The leader of Mythic looked at the young man in front of him and nodded. "I made a promise to save anyone who was close to walking the same path that _he_ did. Martin is already on the start of that path. It's not too late to call him back though." He growled out the word him, and the General only nodded in understanding. He sent up a silent prayer, hoping that Martin would never follow the footsteps of that man.

* * *

"Specialist Tracy Martin. Twenty-five. Home town: Fort Collins, Colorado. Marksman, close-quarters combat expert, and is currently on his fifth tour of duty. Does all of that sound correct Mr. Martin?" The General stared at him across his desk, the air conditioning blowing in the office. His voice was full of the gravel of a career soldier, the thin hair on his head turning gray as he went bald.

"Yes sir." His voice was rough, hoarse from the crying and screaming he had been doing when they found him in that crater in the sand, holding Howes, three days ago. He had been brought back to the base they were operating out of, and had to be sedated to stop his crying. They had treated him while he was out, and he now had a bandage wrapped around his head. When he had woken up, he hadn't said a word. He had been staring into space ever since.

He had been brought to the Commanding General's office an hour ago to make his report. There was another man in there that Tracy had never seen before, but he was told to ignore him and make his full report. He had just finished and was now looking at the General, waiting to see where this went.

"I'm going to read you something son, and I want you to understand that this is from your psych eval after your second tour." The General said, before glancing down at the file in his hand. "Mr. Martin is a truly unique individual. He willingly enlisted and gives everything he has into being a soldier. He is charismatic and well liked by his squad mates. He has a powerful quirk with his Photon Matter Manipulation, and will follow orders without hesitation, but not mindlessly. He will willingly jump into danger to keep others from it, and considers his life worth less than those of his comrades. If his previous evaluations did not show a true hatred for Heroes it would be my impression that Mr. Martin has a Hero Complex."

The General paused here, looking up at Tracy, to see his reaction. All he got was a blank stare. The General continued on "Mr. Martin is an ideal soldier in all counts but one. His squad mates confirm that Mr. Martin will often stay up late and alone in silence, and when he does sleep, he will have nightmares. He seems to have a focus on finding his older brother, also enlisted, and dragging him home 'kicking and screaming, or unconscious if necessary'. Mr. Martin rarely talks of his family, though from what I have found, both of his parents are dead, his elder brother is enlisted, and his little sister is studying at the University in his hometown. He seems to have a very strained relationship with his family, though I am not sure why. It is my recommendation that Mr. Martin should be kept close to longtime friends if possible. This will keep his mental state more stable and allow him a more successful career."

The General looked up at him again. "Martin, I don't need to say it, but I will. You were the only survivor of that ambush, and to survive you unleashed enough force that media back home thinks we detonated a large bomb on an enemy that could not bring that kinda force back.. I've already had three Senators and the Secretary of Defense call me looking for answers. The media will tear you and us apart. Going by this report and the show of force, you are a walking, talking, time bomb. I CAN NOT trust you to just any squad, and I can't give you any special treatment or I will be crucified by a public that is always looking for blood from us. I have two choices. The first and my most likely choice is to force you to retire."

That snapped Tracy out of his haze. "Sir, you can't. I need to be in the military, I…I can't go home. There is nothing for me there. I can't face them yet." He sounded desperate, anger and fear mixing in his voice. " Besides that, I belong here, and I have to f-" He cut himself off when the General held up a hand.

"Like I said, that is my first option, and the word you were about to say was find wasn't it? That shows me just how accurate this report is. There is another option however. The second requires two things. The first is the approval of this man to my right." The General gestured to the man leaning on the wall. "This is Oberon."

"Oberon? As in the King of the Fairies?" Tracy asked, now looking at the man who smiled at him.

"Exactly." The man's voice was light but powerful, and betrayed no weakness. His blue eyes shone as he smirked at Tracy, scruffy brown hair falling close to his eyes. He stood an easy six-foot three. There were no cues as to what his quirk was. His stance betrayed the man for being on the edge all the time. This man didn't care if the General and Tracy were allies. If they moved, he was ready to react and terminate a threat. He was a trained killer, and everyone in the room knew it.

Tracy's look of confusion was erased when the General began speaking again. "Oberon is the leader of a very specific team. One that is off the books, and is kept out of the public eye. They don't have trainings to find new members, they recruit them from other squads."

"I'm being scouted? Sir." Tracy mused, then snapped to attention at the Generals' glare.

"You are. Oberon approached me the other morning after seeing you in action. Before the ambush." The General was careful to put that in. "He approached me initially about you and Howes. Unfortunately, the ambush occurred and well, here we are."

The General sighed. "Martin, I won't lie to you. Oberon has already approved you for joining the team. You just have to be willing to join him, and take the leap, which requires the second thing I mentioned."

The General looked at Oberon and nodded. At this signal Oberon spoke again. "To join Mythic kid, you've gotta go home and ask your family for permission."

"Seriously?!" Tracy spluttered out. "Why should my family have any say in this? I'm the soldier!"

"Your family gets a say, because they will see you less than regular soldiers, much less, and on top of that, you become a ghost. The world doesn't know you exist. You are _dead_ on paper. You get a burial, the whole nine yards." Oberon's voice was iron, ice cold eyes boring into Tracy, serious with every word that left his lips. "Mythic is exactly that kid. A _myth._ That's all the info I can give you without you actually joining."

As he spoke Tracy bowed his head, glaring into the floor. He had lost one person after another in his life. He had lost his father at twelve, his mother at fourteen. The love of his life and his older brother at seventeen, and now his best friend. He hadn't spoken to his family since he joined. He hadn't even gone home to see them. He had spent his time back the states with Howes and his family or at the barracks training.

'_Can I go back? Am I strong enough to face Gwen and Morgan? To face Sarah?'_ He thought of his sister-in-law and her daughter, his sister. They would be angry with him, but would they forgive him? He took a steadying breath and looked up. "When do we go state-side?" He asked, eyes hard and locked on Oberon's smirking face.


End file.
